A Breather

I couldn’t resist having my picture taken in front of this tourist trap with the word Curio in the name. The store was jam-packed with old-fashioned curio cabinets like the enchanted one in my recently completed novel. I confess I might’ve studied the contents to make sure nothing inside hinted at a magical universe.

We are back from a mini vacation in Glenwood Springs, Colorado. In an astonishing turn of events, we actually did do some relaxing. Family vacations have always been problematic for us, and often leave me wondering if other families work so hard to have fun only to succumb to internal friction.

I expect that despite Facebook photo albums showing smiley togetherness, most vacations involve whining, frustration and one or two small disasters. At least I hope we’re not the only ones.

I have a friend who refers to “Facebook Families” as a tongue-in-cheek commentary on all those perfect photo albums and squeaky proud parent statuses. When I’m having a less than FB-worthy moment, she reminds me that everyone has those moments. They just don’t post them.

I tend to take a more honest approach to life. Breathe In Breathe Out has featured my messy journey through womanhood, motherhood, and my writing pursuits.

But I’ve always gotten the most responses to my candid posts about raising a son who faces multiple challenges including Sensory Processing Disorder, ADHD and Anxiety.

It’s been a relief for me to be honest about the struggles we face. And it’s been an honor to receive comments from moms dealing with similar circumstances.

But as you may have noticed, I’ve been posting less frequently. There are a couple reasons for this.

First, since this blog is supposed to be humorous, I feel like a failure when I’m not funny. But guess what, sometimes life isn’t funny.

Second, I’ve been focusing my dubious mental powers on writing and editing my latest book.

Third, I’ve been struggling with how to proceed with this blog. For a long time I couldn’t pinpoint what was bothering me. The answer came in a gradual sort of way, and, at the same time, all at once—rather like watching your children grow up before your eyes, then one day looking over to find this full-sized human you thought was an extension of yourself, but who is really a completely separate and wonderful individual.

Breathe In Breathe Out has been about my journey, but it’s not just my journey anymore. In reality, it never was, but I shared it from my perspective—as a mother of a special needs child.

But this is also my son’s journey. I see that more every day. And as he heads into middle school, I need to be more careful with how much of his life I share. It’s HIS life! It’s mine too, but, yeah, you get it.

Although I love to encourage moms who face similar struggles, even that calling takes a backseat to ensuring both of my sons' privacy as they face the challenge of growing up.

I know you will understand as Breathe In Breathe Out takes a breather (hee hee.) I will still share funny anecdotes as they ambush me and glimpses into the spiral of insanity I call my career.

And I hope that my journey into writing YA fiction, which I LOVE, will spawn an entirely new web presence—maybe a cool alter ego who eats sushi and runs marathons. Then again, maybe I’ll stick to eating cheese and reading books.

Thanks for being my friend here on Breathe In Breathe Out. I’m thankful for every person who has read this blog. I hope you’ll stick around as I rethink, reimagine, repurpose, and redesign my focus. I’m pretty sure it’s going to require a new wardrobe. And some new shoes. Yes, definitely new shoes.

Living in ADHD World

I forget that other people don’t live in ADHD world. 

It’s a shock to encounter someone who seems to have no experience with “Look! Shiny!” thought patterns and actions.

When my kids were little, a successful outing was one in which I didn’t end up abandoning my full shopping cart to chase them across the store dodging people and displays while yelling, “Stop! Wait for Mommy.” 

So when we visited a beauty supply store and Monkey set about rearranging cardboard price signs on the store’s barber shop chairs, well, to me that was minor.

The clerk checking me out said, “Have you heard of Super Nanny?”

I said, “Yes, I’ve seen the show.”

With a straight face, she said, “You should call her.”

I turned around to look at my kids, “Really? I thought things were going well.”

It’s not that I allow my kids to be destructive. It’s not that we don’t talk about respecting others and their property. And hey, sometimes they do mess up. They’re kids. They break things and need to apologize or help fix them.

But here’s where I think my philosophy differs, especially from a traditional child-rearing mindset.

I don’t think it’s wrong to touch things. I don’t think it’s wrong to be loud in certain situations. I don’t think it’s wrong to talk about farting. To let your silliness hang out sometimes.

In our house we deal with some really hard issues. If you follow this blog you know my son struggles with anxiety and it’s been a crushing weight at times. When you face dark monsters like Anxiety, or Autism, or Special Needs, you learn not fear Messy, Loud, and Rambunctious.

Yesterday I took my eleven-year-old to band instrument selection night. Monkey has an amazing ear for music and could carry a tune before he could speak in full sentences. We would love to see him use the gift he’s been given and enjoy making music.

But we had a bit of a bumpy start last night. Our number was called and we walked over to the auditioner who stood by a table of instruments. Monkey immediately ran his fingers over an oboe. We sat down, talked with the man, then Monkey got to try blowing into a trumpet. Since we’d also expressed interest in percussion, the guy notified one of the band teachers that Monkey wanted to try out for that, then he told my son to go wait in line while he talked to me.

Monkey walked away and the auditioner turned to me.

“I’m concerned with how he would treat the instruments.”

I didn’t know where the comment came from. “What do you mean?”

The guy explained that brass instruments are delicate.

I still couldn’t follow. It’s not like Monkey would sword fight with a trumpet. I said as much, and then it dawned on me.

“Oh,” I said, “you’re worried because he touched the instruments when we came over.”

The guy nodded. “He’d have to learn to listen to the band instructor.”

Well, of course he would, along with every other kid experiencing band for the first time.

I wasn’t angry and this man wasn’t mean, but I did wonder how he came to be in this position and still be unfamiliar with kids like Monkey. Kids who learn with their eyes, ears AND hands. Monkey wasn’t disrespectful or destructive. In my book, he’d done nothing wrong. But this guy saw “irresponsible” written all over him.

Photo by Sander Spek

We moved on to the percussion test where Monkey’s hands-on approach didn’t faze the instructor. He remarked on Monkey’s ear, recommended private lessons to get ready for band, and offered encouragement. We left excited about percussion.

I recognize that organizing brand new middle-schoolers who’ve never played an instrument into a band is a Herculean task, and I admire and appreciate the staff dedicated to it.

Raising kids is a Herculean task as well. We don’t all do it the same way. As moms it’s easy to be hard on ourselves when we’re confronted with an attitude toward child-rearing that’s different from our own. We second guess ourselves.

Maybe I should’ve stopped my kids from rearranging the price tags on the chairs in the store. Or maybe it was okay to be happy that we got through an outing with my sanity intact.

Maybe I should’ve warned Monkey not to touch anything last night.Or maybe it was okay that my attention was focused on helping my son discover his gift of music.

Our family lives in ADHD world. Some things we fight for and some things we let slide. We apologize when we’ve done wrong, but we also give ourselves grace when we can’t help but chase the squirrel.

How about you? What world do you live in? How do you handle it when aliens come to visit?

A Slap in the Face and a Move Toward Grace

I started this blog yesterday then abandoned it when the words wouldn't come together. The closer something is to my heart the harder it is to express it.

Then, after a rough day in which I had to coax and threaten my son into to going to school, taking his medicine, and sitting down for dinner, I saw this meme.

I was livid.

“It’s on! I’m writing a blog.” I told my husband, who knew I’d already been stewing on this topic.

I realize that when people post these things, they probably find them funny. Maybe they’ve heard talk of over-diagnosis. Maybe they work in some capacity where they see the worst of the worst in parenting. Maybe they themselves were perfect parents so they have room to judge.

But probably, they just think this is funny.

 It’s not funny. Or cute.

Every time a message like this is posted there’s a mom—many moms—who feel slapped in the face.

Moms like me who knew something was wrong when their child stared at corners as an infant, couldn't talk at 3, and body-slammed people and furniture and walls.

Moms like my friend whose son bounced repetitively and lined up cars in perfect parking lots as a toddler.

Moms like an acquaintance who've had psychologists shake their heads in dismay over their child's emotional outbursts.

Moms who research vaccines, food intolerance, and therapies and read every book they can find that might help them unlock the mystery of their child.

Do they ask for ADHD drugs because they don’t want to deal with difficult behavior?

No.

News flash: ADHD medication doesn’t magically make your child easy to handle. And it DOESN’T WORK on a brain not affected by ADHD.

Do these moms run to the teacher, crying foul because their child is disciplined for being disruptive in class?

No.

They spend hours in meetings with school professionals discussing ways to help their child stay afloat in the rapids of mainstream education.

These moms pray, and cry, and face a relentless demon called Failure day after day after day.

They get up in the morning and they love and care for those kids others label

Bad

Trouble-maker

Spoiled

Immature

Delinquent               

When I see memes like the ones above, my first reaction is, How dare you?

How dare you presume to know what I’ve been through? What my friends have been through. How dare you label my child? And me.

But last night, after stewing and praying and stewing some more, I realized there’s another possible motivation for posting these hurtful messages.

These people suffered as kids. No one knew or cared that they couldn't concentrate in class, couldn't control certain impulses, couldn't “behave” like everyone else.

They were called

Bad

Trouble-maker

Spoiled

Immature

Delinquent

And worse.

Now, they see moms and schools and medical professionals trying to help kids suffering as they did, and maybe it hurts. Maybe they wish someone had looked at them with sympathy rather than censure.

I don’t know if this realization will change my knee-jerk reaction, but I hope it will at least soften my heart toward those I'd like to pummel.

I recognize that arguments rage about ADHD, autism, and developmental and behavioral disorders. I don’t want to feed the negative emotion associated with any particular position. I do want to applaud parents, educators, and medical professionals who seek answers and help, ways to cope, ways to overcome, ways to live with, ways to encourage, ways to uplift and not diminish.

In that spirit, here are two links that blessed me this week. The first is a video featuring an exceptional child with autism and sensory processing disorder who explains what SPD entails. When I shared it on Facebook it was with the words, "This is my world!"

The second is the story of a rock star waiter in Houston who stood up for a family with a special needs child. People like this man give moms like me a second wind. May God bless his socks off!

 http://news.yahoo.com/blogs/lookout/waiter-refused-customer-becomes-hero-144638357--finance.html

Let's try to give each other grace people.

Paying for a Weekend Away

Captain ADHD aka Monkey aka yes-my-kids-have-real-names had a meltdown this morning. Somehow 7:50 AM snuck up on him. He’d finished breakfast and was watching Fairly Odd Parents when I told him we needed to think about getting dressed. Yes, that is how I phrased it. We have a system.


7:50: “It’s time to think about getting dressed.”

7:55: “You’ll need to get dressed soon.”

8:00: “Go brush your teeth and get dressed.”

8:05: “We’re running out of time. Go get dressed.”

You may think this is nagging or that not making him go immediately is a poor parenting tactic. But this is how we handle pretty much everything in Monkey’s life. The reason? ADHD. Monkey needs to know what’s coming and be reminded of it several times in order to process the change in his activity. In many cases it’s not about obedience. It’s about easing through the most difficult parts of his day—transition times.

But this morning, the reminders didn’t help. He lost it. He told me, “I didn’t have enough time. How can it be 8:00 already? I didn’t get enough time.”

Guilt washed over me as I cuddled him, trying to lay out the day and our week in reassuring, positive tones.

This breakdown was my fault. I’d been gone all day every day from Thursday to Sunday. I attended a fabulous writer’s conference here in town then on Sunday after a half day at the conference, I drove up to Denver to join Mom at the Englewood Library’s annual Meet the Faces author event.

Kory was awesome while I was gone. I am blessed beyond the stars to have a husband who supports my writing. But it’s hard on my family.

This weekend an important homework project was overlooked. The laundry staged a coup. Chunky had no clean underwear last night, and Monkey didn’t have shorts to wear today. And this morning my son suffered because our routine was off. He didn’t get enough time. With me.

I drowned in the weight of the moment.

Moms out there, I know you’ve felt the same way. I know you’ve asked, “How can I take time for myself when my family pays the price? How can I be that selfish?”

Hear me on this.

Being a mom is wonderful and important, but you are more than a mom. You are a woman with talents, abilities, and interests, and it is not wrong to develop those. It’s not selfish to pursue the God-given desires of your heart.

Selfish is spending your family’s food money on alcohol.

Selfish is neglecting your kids because you’re too strung out to care.

Selfish is running down another mom because she works outside the home. Or doesn’t. Sends her kids to a certain kind of school. Or doesn’t. Goes to the gym. Or doesn’t.

Yes, we might’ve been ahead instead of behind on the homework project if I’d been home this weekend.

Yes, Chunky would’ve had clean undies, and Monkey would’ve had the shorts he wanted to wear if I’d been home this weekend.

And, yes, Monkey probably wouldn’t have had a meltdown this morning if I’d been home this weekend.

I wouldn’t have sat with him on his bed as he panicked about all the unknowns of his week. I wouldn’t have told him that when we go through something un-fun, like a test, we can remind ourselves of the good things coming—a family outing this weekend. When one more day of school feels like eternity, we still know that summer is around the corner. When we’re miserable we tell ourselves, “It’s not always going to be this way.”

My little boy needs to learn that lesson. He’ll need to hear it over and over again. Because I was gone this weekend, he heard it this morning. That’s one down. 99? 1,000? Who knows how many to go?

photo by flickr contributor Earls37a